FORTY-SEVEN

“Detective de la Cruz, how nice to see you again.”

As Vitoria came forward across the gallery space, she offered the man her hand. “I didn’t expect you so soon. It’s not even ten in the morning.”

“Traffic was light.”

He was dressed in a version of what he’d had been in the day before, the blazer dark brown this time, the pants black, the shoes slush-worthy and streaked with dried salt stains. He had something in his hand, but not a notebook. A clipboard? No, it was a thin laptop.

“Would you like to go somewhere to talk?” he said.

“But of course. This way.”

As she led him over to the stairs to Ricardo’s office, she was aware of a curling anxiety. She hid it by reminding herself that if she couldn’t handle this kind of heat, she had no business thinking that she could run her brothers’ illegal empire.

And no, she was not going down to the station to meet de la Cruz. He had given her a choice of that or him coming to her. Not a tough decision.

When they were in her brother’s expansive bowling alley of an office, she walked forward to the desk—but stopped halfway there and turned on her heel.

“Here I am again, being rude. I’ve forgotten to offer you something to drink once more.”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“As you do.”

She went the rest of the way, noting that she’d left that chair she’d sat in the previous day still out of place and turned around. Ricardo would not have approved, and she had to resettle it back where it belonged.

Smoothing her pink and black Chanel suit, she faced him. “So tell me, Detective, have you found something on the security tapes?”

“Yes. I have.”

As she stared at him, she trained her face to slowly disintegrate into an expression that approximated fear and worry. “Are my brothers okay?”

“Do you mind if I bring that other chair around so we can sit together?”

“No. Not at all.”

Feigning like she had to take a seat or she would fall down, she swept her hair over her shoulder, lowered herself into the chair she’d rearranged, and crossed her legs.

Beneath that show of femininity, she was all calculation.

De la Cruz joined her on the right side and put the laptop on his knees. “So we were able to gain access to the security footage thanks to the laptop you allowed us to take from that security room. We were very surprised how far back the recordings went.”

“How far did they?”

“Over a year.”

“A year?”

She made a show of tracing his face with her eyes, as if she were attempting to read his features. “So what did you find?” she asked in a weak voice.

“We thought that isolating the relevant footage would be a challenge, but your brother was very regimented. Every morning—right about this time, actually—he walked the gallery space below. We discovered this when we started watching the footage, and because of this habit, we were able to zero in on the night in question with some efficiency.”

“What happened to him,” she asked in a flat voice.

His brown eyes became grave. “These images are going to be difficult for you to watch. But I have to ask you if you recognize anyone in them.”

Bracing her palms on her knees, she pulled her skirt down a number of times and made a show of swallowing hard—which was in truth not an act. She was suddenly quite emotional. “I find I am nervous.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. But if we’re going to catch your brothers’ killers, we need to pursue every avenue we have. And you are one of them.”

“I don’t know anything about their business, though.”

“I understand that. But sometimes things get jogged.” The detective touched himself on the head. “The mind can recall things that we’re not aware of knowing.”

“Show me.”

He flipped open the cover of the laptop. After typing some commands, he swiveled the thing around so it faced her.

“The relevant images have been copied and merged from the various cameras. You’ll see the time counter and feed number change in the lower right-hand corner as a result of this. But just concentrate on what’s happening, okay?”

Vitoria leaned in. There was a video box in the center of the screen, showing a black-and-white depiction of the outside stoop of the back entrance of the gallery. Just as de la Cruz had said, there was a time counter in white with a roman numeral “I” next to it off to the side.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

He hit something, and the counter started to move. “You’ll note that—”

“Shh,” she said as two figures came into view.

Men. Tall and big, with one of them dressed nicely in a fine overcoat. The other was wearing a leather jacket of sorts. It was difficult to see their faces as both were looking downward, and they stood before the closed door for just a moment before it was opened for them. They paused, evidently to converse with someone, and then they were inside—and the camera view changed, switching to out in the gallery space proper.

A man without any outerwear on walked them into where the art was and must have told them to stop where they were, as he went alone to the door to Ricardo’s office. There were two guards on either side, and after a momentary discussion, the first guard disappeared, clearly to take a message upstairs.

Thereafter, the man in the high-quality overcoat spoke to the pair of sentries as his associate in the leather jacket went on a stroll around the pieces that had been installed. And then the first man took something out of his coat—a cigar. He motioned to it and spoke as though he were asking the guards’ permission to smoke.

The guard on the left pointed to a sign and shook his head. The overcoat man asked something else. After a second, the guard on the right shrugged…opened the door to the staircase—

The attack was so swift, Vitoria’s eyes couldn’t track it. The overcoat man was suddenly on the other guard and snapping his neck—while the one in leather came over and stabbed the other one. Twice.

“Oh, God,” she said in Spanish. It was not hard to figure out where this was heading.

There was some quick conversation between the two men. And then overcoat’s henchman dragged the guard who had been stabbed behind one of the exhibits and they both disappeared into the stairwell to Ricardo’s office.

“There are no cameras in your brother’s office—or its staircase,” the detective said quietly. “So we don’t know what transpired exactly.”

The end result was obvious, however. Within minutes, the two men emerged and the henchman had someone over his shoulder.

“We believe that is your brother,” the detective said. “Ricardo.”

Yes, she thought as tears came to her eyes. She could recognize the suit, the shoes, the back of the head.

There was a pause as the men looked around, as if to ascertain whether their presence had been noted or an alarm was sounding. And then they were moving fast, entering the staff area.

“There are no cameras in that back area.” The detective cleared his throat. “But you’ll see them come out…”

And there they were. Emerging from the rear door…and disappearing out of camera range.

Vitoria sat back and did not have to pretend the upset. Putting her hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes. When she had gone to that bolt-hole up on Iroquois Mountain, and found her brother’s remains in that basement, she had had the end of the story. The detective had just provided her the beginning.

When she could speak, she said in a rough way, “What of Eduardo? Have you found anything of him?”

“No. We have not.”

“Why would anyone hurt them?” she asked, partially to have it look good, but also as an expression of her true sorrow.

They had been children once. They had all been children…once. How had it come to this? Then again, given how hard and horrible their youngest years had been, and the means by which Ricardo had lifted them out of that poverty, how else could it have ended?

“Why…” she breathed.

“Ms. Benloise, do you really want me to answer that?”

She pulled herself out of the past. “Yes.”

“If you notice the time stamp, you’ll see that it’s well after business hours. And yet there are three guards on the premises as your brother works late—and the security cameras watch only the back door and gallery space, not either of your brothers’ offices or the entire rear portion of this building. And the reality is, when we continued to view the footage, there were a number of other people who came and went, all after hours, all to see your brother upstairs. You’ve got to ask yourself, what kind of legitimate business could he possibly be doing?”

“I…I don’t know.” She looked into the man’s kind brown eyes. “What of the bodies, though? There were dead guards when they left?”

“One of the men came back. It was just before dawn. He worked fast and took them out. They must have gotten access to the security code or a key somehow. By the time the staff returned in at nine a.m., everything was cleaned up.”

Vitoria sat back and stared straight ahead.

“My question to you is,” the detective said, “do you recognize either of those men who took your brother?”

“Let me watch again.”

She reviewed the footage two more times, leaning in as close as she could get to the screen. When she sat back again, she did not have to lie.

“No, I do not. I’ve never seen them before.”

But she would recognize them in the future, for sure. That was why she had watched again and then one more time.

De la Cruz cleared his throat. “This should not surprise you, but that was not the first time that man in the overcoat came to see your brother.”

“No?”

“He had been there before that night. We have the footage a good month or so prior to that attack—and he had been to the gallery a number of times.”

Vitoria made a noncommittal noise and stared ahead, summoning in her mind the features she had seen on both of those killers.

“Ms. Benloise, you told me that you were staying in your brother’s West Point house.”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “I am.”

“Would you mind if we searched those premises and got access to any video monitoring equipment there is on that property?”

Vitoria tried to marshal her thoughts—and after a moment, she nodded. “Certainly. Help yourself.”

It was naive of her to think that no other people would have shown up on the footage—people who might be arrested in conjunction with illegal activity thanks to what she had allowed the police to see.

Was she doing herself and her ambitions harm in granting further access? What if the business she had come to take over got decimated by all this evidence? Then again, the police undoubtedly knew far more than they were letting on.

And if she had to start everything from scratch, then she would.

The detective started to talk again, but she wasn’t paying him any attention. She was too busy trying to chess-move this evolving situation. And in the end, she knew she didn’t really have a choice with regard to the West Point house. If she didn’t give them permission, it would be as it had been here at the gallery—they would very certainly get a court to clear any obstacles she might put up.

Besides, it was critical that those two attackers be stopped, whether she did it behind the scenes or the police did it in front: If she wanted to be in business, she might well be a target as Ricardo and Eduardo’s sister—kill or be killed had never been more applicable.

Although that was assuming those men were still alive. Perhaps their fates had already been served by someone else?

“I want to help you in any way I can,” she intoned, whether or not that was appropriate to whatever he was saying.

“We appreciate that.” There was a pause. “I just have one more question for you. What were you doing here the night you came after hours?”

Vitoria shook herself. “I’m sorry?”

“The security footage from three nights ago shows you arriving at the rear door and being let into the gallery by a man. Can you please explain what you were doing?”

She cleared her throat and projected upset. “As I hadn’t heard from my brothers, I called a number they had given me long before all this. A man answered. He told me to come to the gallery as soon as it was convenient and so I did.”

“Does that man work for the gallery?”

“I believe he does security. He made me feel…very uncomfortable. He threatened me—I was scared so I departed as soon as I could. And you know, it was odd. Margot and I—when she came to see me before she left the night she was killed…you know, I never put this together…” She looked up in alarm at the detective. “But she brought him up. She told me…she said he had made a pass at her, but she had turned him down and…I mean, she seemed scared.”

“What is the man’s name?”

“Streeter. His name is Streeter. I didn’t mention this before because where I am from, we do not speak of such things. But it is all different now. Everything…is different now.”

“Would you be willing to come down to headquarters and give a statement?”

“Is there any way I could do it tomorrow? I really…I want to go lie down. I’m not feeling well…”

“Absolutely.”

She stared into his eyes. “I want you to catch those evil men, Detective de la Cruz. They need to be in jail for the rest of their lives for what they did to Ricardo—and what they must have done to my other brother.”

De la Cruz nodded. “That’s my job, Ms. Benloise. And I’m very good at it.”